Bloodlines, Books, and Bonds

DNA Closeness

Genealogy is an interesting pursuit. In it we chase bits of information about family members in books, census data, land transactions, birth and death certificates, tax records, military records, newspapers, and bits of other things that may have been archived in family heirlooms or in public libraries. These things tell stories of the lives of our ancestors. We reconstruct connections to siblings, children, cousins, parents, and even close friends and neighbors. Once a genealogy bug bites - the genealogical work extends from their own family networks to friends and then to complete strangers.

We do it for different reasons. Some do it because they enjoy the chase. Some do it for a sense of pride in the accomplishments of their ancestors. Some do it because they long for connections to something that feels significant. Some do it in hopes of understanding themselves better. Some do it for the opportunity to be part of a lineage or heritage society such as the Sons of the American Revolution, of Daughters of the American Revolution, Sons of Confederate Veterans, United Daughters of the Confederacy, Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War, and Daughters of Union Veterans of the Civil War, The Mayflower Society, The Jamestown Society, or even the National Society Magna Carta Dames and Barons. And some, like me, do it primarily to understand how individuals - who happen to have been traceable relatives - interacted with the world in their place in history.

My father and grandfather were members of the Sons of the American Revolution, but I have never applied. As I have traced the available records I have come to believe that I could also be eligible for Sons of both Union and Confederacy, both the Mayflower and Jamestowne societies, and the Magna Carta society. Though stepping through all the paperwork and society scrutiny to prove it may be too grueling and of little more value to me than just believing it. 

For the Mayflower, for instance, I can confidently link to a 10th great-grandfather, Digory Priest, who sailed on the Mayflower to the New World. And with reasonable confidence (lineage shown in the image) I connect to a twelfth great grandfather and grandmother, William and Mary Brewster.  

Though the Brewsters are my grandparents, I will inherit on average only 0.01% of their DNA and I might inherit 0.02% from Great Grandpa Priest. While I chase their life stories, I can lay claim to their cultural contributions to my life experiences but very little of my genetic tendencies. 

For the prestige of it, maybe I would rather focus on one of my eleventh great grandfathers - John Holles who was an Earl (1st Earl of Clare). I could just as easily look at a much less prestigious ninth great-grandfather, William Covington, who arrived in the Colonies as an indentured servant. Since, his circumstances were more humble - I might mention he only contributed 0.05% of my DNA. My eight great-grandfather, Christopher Robinson, I will brag about since he was quite successful and accomplished. He contributed 0.10% of my DNA. But since he was a slaveholder - I might also note it was ONLY 0.10%. 

I think I'll just skip over Charles Gorsuch, Jr., an 8th great-grandfather who was also a slaveowner, and move to a sixth great-grandfather, Abijah Stephens, who was a righteous Quaker - sacrificing his family farm to the patriotic cause at Valley Forge and releasing his one slave within days of the budding Nation's declaration that "All men are created equal..." 

I could look nostalgically on a fifth great-grandfather, Francis McCown, with whom I share 0.78% of his DNA (and his Y-Chromosome). He came to the frontier of Virginia as a Scotsman from Ireland to settle the west for the country's westward expansion.

I share about 1.6% of any fourth great-grandfather's DNA. What part of the life of my fourth great-grandfather, Oliver Brown, do I want to emphasize?  His heroic participation as an artillery captain in the American Revolution or his leadership in a riot on the Bowling Green in New York City? Maybe, I would rather speak of his entrepreneurial adventures in Concord where, um, he went bankrupt and used the juridical limits of the new Nation's State borders to escape and restart his life in Western Virginia? 

The genetic relationship of us to our prized ancestors diminishes quickly. My connection to William Brewster, for example, may have contributed a little over 0.01% of his DNA to me but he also may have contributed none. He has to share contribution with 8,191 other twelfth great-grandfathers.

A Magna Carta ancestor, though traceable to me by every document I uncover, is unlikely to share any genetic similarity (footnote 1). In fact, I am more likely to share measurable DNA with a stranger I pass in the grocery store who, unknown to both of us, is my fifth cousin thrice removed.

Genealogy remains fun for the thrill of the search. It continues to provide reasons to socialize with others you share interests with. It can provide additional layers to entertainment and clarity when we are able to travel to places our ancestors walked. It certainly provides opportunities to learn where history and humanity interact in the eaches - those small, individual moments - along the way. As such it can provide guidance to us as we walk in our place of history.

But, in the end, the genetics show us that we are all interconnected. Bloodlines are meaningless, books are revealing, but bonds are what we make them.

1. Unless you are a male and he is the Y-line ancestor or you are a female and she is a mitochondrial-line ancestor.

 

Bullets and Bananas

A Bullet and a Banana

Almost 30 years ago a banana was growing in the tropical regions of the Americas.  It made its way into the lunch bag of a Physicist working for the United States Air Force. The vast majority of bananas that make it into a lunch bag are eaten. But this particular banana sat on a desk patiently waiting to be consumed by someone, if not the one who brought it to work in the bag - but no one did.  And so it sat.

In the airconditioned offices there was little moisture and the banana was far from the door where fruit flies might have entered.  The banana simply waited, and waited, and waited. As it waited the dry air slowly evaporated its moisture.

The Physicist was intrigued.  How long would the banana last? He named the banana Bob and left it atop a file cabinet.  Office tomfoolery gave Bob a tombstone.  Bob, the banana, became an office topic of discussion long before artist Mauizio Cattelan taped one to a wall and sold it for $120,000.

When people get together socially, in families, in work environments, play happens.  Whether it is Puma with his landscaping pals or the Physicist and me while waiting on weapon analysis computations to finish, it happens.

Six or seven years before the banana, the Physicist was playing with the base of a 20mm projectile while standing beside a filing cabinet. He often spun it like a top, while we discussed approaches to our next project. Over time we developed various ways to spin the top.  First there was the simple one handed two finger twist.  Then came the two-handed opposing thumbs spin (my favorite). Finally, we attached a string to it and spun it like the wooden tops of his childhood.

Then came the question.  How fast is it spinning? We guessed at first, but we were not going to be satisfied with a guess.  How could we find out?  We threw out several suggestions then he asked - how would Newton have done it? I suggested dropping a drop of water on the top and measuring the maximum distance it traveled.  We derived the formula for such an experiment.

The Formula

We carefully dropped the water on top then measured the diameter of the circle the water formed on the top of the file cabinet. We took several measurements and averaged them (both of the circle and of different spins). We came up with speeds ranging over 6,000 rpms with our fingers and up to 10,000 rpms with the string technique. He didn't believe it. What error could there be that would make it err toward being too big?

I proposed a few.  There was a lip on the top of the top that could provide some lift to the water.  The top does travel so maybe it is traveling too much during the period of interaction; but it seemed like those events would be negligible since the interaction was occurring in milliseconds.

Finally, we found someone with a strobe meter.  We put a white strip of paper on one side of the top, spun it and measured it with the strobe while simultaneously applying the water method. The differences were within 400 rpms. The technique was a complete success.

The Physicist retired from the USAF around 2006 and then started working for a Defense contractor.  He put in another 20 years there.  I started some part-time work with the same company. Just before he retired again, he handed me the banana and the bullet.

Guitar Poetry - circa Early Adolescence

 

My Poetic Magnum Opus

I'm a reasonably good writer.  I'll never win a Pulitzer Prize or even publish a book that others will want to read for pleasure or great insight, but I can put ideas on paper (or e-paper) in a way that communicates, flows, and sometimes entertains. Occasionally, my words can even evoke a level of feeling! 

Because my feelings are mild and usually under subjection, my words often don't resonate deeply. So - you might imagine that poetry is well beyond my reach. I frequently fail to understand the poetry of others; and, I have discovered that failing is precisely because I am trying to understand the poetry instead of letting it evoke some sort of feeling. 

Consequently, I haven't written much poetry. I tried my hand at one when I proposed to my wife. She kept it, so she at least appreciated the attempt. Other than that, attempts have been scarce, at best. So, this old piece of poetry that I was required to write in school as a child - is of great value due to its rarity if not quality.  I don't know the exact date of writing it - but I was somewhere between 11 and 13 years of age. 

The assignment was simple. "Write a rhyming poem and illustrate it.  We will do something special with it when everyone is done." 

When we were done, we tore around the edges of the paper and charred them with a lighter.  We then glued and shellacked it to a board to make a plaque or wall hanging.  The finished product is pictured above. 

As I child, I fully believed I had failed at the assignment. I struggled just to find words to rhyme.  I wasn't particularly good at drawing. What can I even write about? I had guitar lessons this weekend - can I find things that will rhyme with guitar?  Yeah! "Tar" rhymes with it. I think I can draw a guitar. Problem solved.  Let's see:

The Guitar

I once had a guitar,

and droped (sic) it in tar.

It looked very bad,

and I got so mad.

But still that was the end of the guitar.

I enjoyed the guitar lessons at the time - but I wasn't progressing. I practiced, but I didn't seem to be improving. I now believe, as I married a musical person and raised two children who learned to play instruments well, that I have both a limit in my musical hearing and I struggle at memorization of any kind. For my musical hearing limitation, I thought in terms of a melody - not chords and a beat.  Anyway - I was entering a love/hate relationship with my guitar. That relationship shows in the poem.

How early I began my go-to loss management style!

                I lost something. 

                I felt the loss. 

                Feeling it doesn't change the situation. 

                Let's move on.

On the back of the plaque are impressions of another childhood action.  I think I was 12 when I got a pocketknife as a Christmas gift.  It had an awl as one the blades. I drilled a hole in the upper right-hand corner of the plaque with that awl.  I also stabbed the back of the board many, many times. I did it so many times and so hard that the tip of the knife blade is slightly bent to this very day. I think there was any specific rage associated with the stabbing - but it was certainly a bit of my boyhood violence preserved in wood.

I need to blog. For today, what should I log? I have this old plaque - what else do I lack? Just something to get out of this fog!

Independence, Freedom, & Liberty

Monument at Valley Forge

"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free."

***

"To the land of the free and the home of the brave."

***

"My country 'tis of Thee, sweet land of liberty - Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountain side - Let Freedom Ring!"

***

We sing these songs with a feeling of love of country and shared images. For 250 years, Americans have projected a deep belief in liberty — in our voices, in our choices, and in the stories we tell about ourselves. Sometimes our voices led us to act decisively in support of others and sometimes we chose quiet sympathy — perhaps even empathy — for their aspirations of freedom.

Our first opportunity was the French Revolution. We were deeply torn here, because they - like us were throwing off the shackles of a monarchy - a quest for liberty. However, that very monarchy had been a linchpin to our own success in achieving independence. We were torn between our ideals and political realities. 

Throughout our history we have had to make those choices. We intervened in Cuba in 1898 helping to free it from Spanish rule. A few years later we supported Panama's separation from Colombia allowing a new nation to emerge. And we fought in Western Europe defending the sovereignty (or independence) of several countries whose freedom was threatened. At other times our support for liberty has been muted or tempered by political realities, as in Africa, in India, and even in Ukraine. Not a perfect record - but our own cry for independence and quest of liberty has historically emboldened many a patriot, rebel, and martyr - such that many nations can say, like us "at least I know I'm free."

We've bled, we've died, we've sung, we've prayed, we've cried carrying with us these words: independence, freedom, and liberty as our banners of the same hope. And yet, each carries its own weight, its own promise, and its own reward.

In the Declaration of the Independence - we stated clearly so all the world would know and hear that we no longer recognized England's authority over us. We declared our God Ordained sovereignty. 

Our declaration said that all men are "endowed by their Creator ... with Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness." And so, along with independence we sought liberty. Our rights to make our own rules and decide for ourselves what is best for us. In days leading up to the American Revolution "Sons of Liberty" gathered, when not in Taverns, around Liberty Trees and Liberty Poles. Our Constitution was designed to, among other things, secure our Blessings of Liberty.

Since England disagreed with our declaration we had to continue to fight for our independence. After seven years - at the Treaty of Paris, our fight led to freedom from England's rule and the liberty to choose our manner of governing ourselves. Almost seven years after thirteen colonies in the Americas had won their independence, they used their new liberties to become codependent upon one another.

Independence comes at a price.  It requires self-discipline to set and abide by your own boundaries.  It requires enforcing those boundaries on ourselves and on those who would steal our independence.

Freedom imagines no boundaries. With freedom in our hearts, we feel a utopic hope. Yet, the freedom of one invariably conflicts with the happiness of another. And so, it is not freedom but liberty that we must pursue.

Liberty for a nation exists in that time and space where its people desire freedom and work to assure it is available in abundance for everyone. Liberty is shared with grace. 

"...one Nation under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all."

Happy Independence Day - celebrating 250 years since we declared it. 

AFTERWARD:  Most of my blogs have included many links and almost always a reference to some genealogical connection.  Today's blog didn't lend itself to that directly. However, so that I don't neglect a connection to genealogy - I will share a link to a young man (in 1776, anyway), Phineas Stephens, who seemingly was directly affected by the Declaration of Independence. Before Washington camped in his community of Valley Forge, he was awarded not only National but personal liberty. Abijah Stephens, who once restricted Phineas' freedom and later established his legal freedom was one of my great grandfathers.

Found Letters - Forgotten Fates

 

1892 Family Letter

It's been five years.  My dad died on the first of July five years ago. Following his death I uncovered in a box of his things a large manila envelope. In that envelope were scores of letters. These letters were written to family members starting as early as 1856 and a transcript of a letter from 1840. These letters were not protected and not preserved.

As I went through the letters, I had to decide what I was going to do with them. Some I have kept. Some I have shared with family. Some I have donated to a library since they involve coal mining and railroad history of West Virginia. Some of them were written on paper that crumbled upon touch.  Those I tried to read as much as I could then I simply let the fragments fall into a waste basket.  One of those was a letter from my grandfather to his mother in the 1927. My grandfather had been working in tree surgery in the northeastern U.S. and told of his opportunity to see the movie, "Ben Hur.".

The 1840 letter was written in May that year to my 4th Great-Grandfather, John Wylie, by his brother, Robert, who was living as a tenant in Hallgreen Castle in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. Robert had let communication languish between him and John - not answering a letter for 23 years. In his letter he poured out the events of fortunes and failures in their family in Europe that had occurred since they last communicated. Unfortunately, when he finally wrote and sent the letter - it arrived shortly before or after his brother died in September of the same year.

The 1856 letter and some closely following it were letters of affection written by John' grandson, Robert, to Elizabeth Blume, who he would eventually marry. They were written on very fine quality paper and have held up very well. Additionally, there were letters from Elizabeth Blume's father, Philip to his son-in-law discussing his health shortly before his death.  In this letter he describes his condition as: "I have a severe cough and pain in my left side. My bowels are greatly disordered & I am still growing weaker." and "I am very anxious to see you all before I go hence. The way I am failing so fast I sometimes think the time is near at hand and I am daily trying to be ready." Philip, born in 1793, wrote that letter in July of 1872 and died four months later. There is no record as to whether the family made the trip to from Athalia, OH to Mountain Cove, WV within those four months.

The saddest series of letters occurred between 1891 and 1893.  It begins with hope and enthusiasm by great-grandfather's brother, Cecil, as he discusses his hopeful expectations for his education at National Normal University in Lebanon, OH. 

While home in Millers, OH for a break, he sent a letter to his brother in May of 1891 about upcoming examinations and that he would be traveling back to Lebannon on the Ida Smith then returning to visit him in Kenova, WV. He then spoke distantly of a macabre event where he says, "Sunny Dillons caught the Sarron girl who was drowned last Feb. Her folks came down after her on the Brown. She was all to pieces a horrible looking sight it is supposed that she has lain in the willows until this rain floated her out."

School work was beginning to wear on him because in October of 1891, he says about how much time he will need to spend in schoolwork, "It almost discourages me, but if See Miller can stand it why can’t I?" In that same letter he says about his ambitions, "I would like to stay at home all the time but I see that is impossible. Millers is no place for me or any other boy that intends to make anything out of themself." 

In that same month he was not in school, but rather employed with his cousin as his letter to his brother he says, "...if Peck gives you a helper this winter I would like to stay with you. It would be much much nicer than this work if he will pay anything reasonable. I would not kick you need not say anything about it unless you think best. But if you should want me I would gladly except (sic). We are not getting along as fast with this work as Coleman expected we would when he took this work. I don’t think he will make much money. We will be at French Lick some time all while but so far they have been settled by Dutch and it was the same as being in Germany. Today we are with an English family but it is so crowded that I am in misery. There is 11 sleeps in the same room. A man and his wife in the same room." 

There is no evidence that my great-grandfather found any work for Cecil - so the next summer, Cecil was working on a railroad contract job outside of Charleston, WV for C. A. Saber. There he applied his education toward keeping payroll for the company as he relayed in his letter to his brother on Jul 7, 1892. This letter was also full of hope for increased pay and responsibility. It was full of interests in the unique ways of the railroad contracting business. It included glimpses of his excitement for new sights, sounds, and experiences. Cecil spoke of absorbing those experiences while seemingly devoid of prejudice when he says, "We have a crew of Old Virginia Negroes here. They are a great set. All of them call me Captain James. It makes me think of the old man who had the boat above yours last summer." 

It was a letter of hope, but it ended with an omen when he says, "Burr Sarber is sick with Typhoid Fever. He is very sick. He will have a hard time of it as he is so fleshy. I think that he will come through all right."  Cecil, himself, died of Typhoid only one month later on the 8th of August.

In a November letter (page 2) the same year to my great-grandfather, their mother and my 2nd great-grandmother, Henrietta, wrote, "Twelve weeks today since we followed poor Cecil to his resting place. A sad day it was to and I will all the rest of my life – oh one so dear to me how can I ever give him up." and closes with "take good care of yourself, Vess, and don't get sick"

Among the letters some are of love and some are of hope. Some, though, are simply the last links to a loved family member. Today we don't often have those tangible letters to hold on to and reread as I imagine my great-grandparents did from time to time. 

It is intriguing that I have letters that were last links to great-grandparents and uncles I never met. Simultaneously, they are a subset of the tangible things I have held on to remember my loved family member.

American Revolution - Declaring Independence

Signing of the Declaration of Independence

I began celebrating, in my own way, the Semiquincentennial (250th) anniversary of the birth of the United States on the 19th of April 2025, the day 251 years ago now, that the first shots of the American Revolution rang out along the Lexington-Concord road.

I began with a tour of American Revolutionary War parks and sights. I followed that up with several genealogical documentation efforts that included:

• Documenting more of the Lexington Minutemen.
• Documenting the People of Valley Forge
• Researching the Green Mountain Boys
• Identifying Revolutionary Ancestors for my family members and blogging about many of them

The culmination of this celebration ends on the day it officially begins, 4 July 2026 when the fireworks fill the evening skies across the country marking the 250th anniversary of our declaration.

I don't know why this anniversary hit me stronger than most.  Maybe it is because I remember looking forward to the 200th Anniversary in 1976.  Maybe it is because I have a copy of George Bancroft's 1876 Centennial American History six volume set of books that I have tried unsuccessfully to read over the years. Maybe it is because I realize I am very unlikely to survive to see the 300th Anniversary. Maybe it is because I am fascinated by the zeal for independence and the sacrifice for liberty that was not and could not be adequately communicated in grade school curriculum.

As with the other blogs on the subject, I'm going to explore personal connections to the events. Wikitree has a feature that allows you to find connections (if your tree is on Wikitree) to various people who have developed profiles. For example, there are categories for things like the Signers of the Declaration of Independence or the Magna Carta Barons - both examples of a group of peoples asserting their perceived rights to self-govern.

When I look at my family ties to the signers of the Declaration of Independence, I discover three standouts worth discussing.

First, I am a third cousin to John Adams. John, in great collaboration with his wife, Abigail, thought about the formation of the nation from a legal perspective. In many ways he didn't originally want to break from England - but once he realized it was inevitable, he fought vigorously and tirelessly to make it successful. The struggle came at a great cost to his relationships with family and friends.

Second, I am a first cousin to Roger Sherman. You don't hear much about Roger, but he was the only signer who signed all the founding documents. He signed the Continental Association, Declaration of Independence, Articles of Confederation, and the Constitution. Roger and I are related through a common grandfather, Benjamin Wellington.

John and Roger are prominently portrayed standing next to one another in John Trumbull's painting (shown above) of the signing of the declaration.

The final "close" family member is Thomas Nelson, Jr a fourth cousin. Thomas was not portrayed in Trumbull's famous painting. Thomas was a commander at the siege of Yorktown.  Some British took refuge in his town home.  His artillerymen deigned to fire at his house - so Nelson aimed the cannon at his own house.

Fourth cousins are not particularly close family members. Often people don't personally know any of their living fourth cousins. But this signer is of special interest because our common ancestor is Theophilus Hone (one of my 9th great-grandfathers in my paternal lineage). Theophilus lived in Jamestown, VA in 1666 where he was a Burgess. But he has the distinction of connecting me to both my paternal and maternal family.  Theophilus received a grant of land on the Rappahannock in payment for providing passage for one of my maternal eighth great-grandfathers, Charles Gorsuch, (and three of his siblings) while they were orphaned minors to the Colonies in the early 1650s.

As the semiquincentennial approaches and in thinking about these three cousins, I realize what I would never have been told in a classroom history class.  I am personally connected to the very founding of this country.  Like the three-cornered hat of the 18th century, these three patriots and the contributions they made rest on my head reminding me of the precious inheritance their contributions provided me.

Liberty! Hard won and easily eroded. Liberty! Fraught with risk yet alive with promise. Liberty! Self-determination bound to responsibility. Liberty! Held in trust and shared with grace. Liberty! Give me liberty or give me death! We cry for liberty. 

Do I and my fellow heirs have what it takes to maintain and expand our inheritance?

The Club and the Ring

Standard Hospital View

Memories are funny. Traumatic events in life are often seared into the core of our memories. Traumatic memories affect different people differently, but I suppose no matter who you are they resurface both when intentionally recalled and when unintentionally triggered. Today, I’m going to intentionally recall one for this blog. But to be fair this memory surprised me a couple days ago after laying dormant for probably over a decade.

So often these seared-in memories are experienced, for me anyway, in snippets. They are usually immediately re-filed unless they arise in conversation. Even then, the whole memory is not explored - only the essence needed for the topic of conversation. This time I’m going to try to remember it and reveal it in its entirety.

This story starts with an eleven year old me and a seven year old brother.

We attended a small private school at that time. Every school day we would walk to a neighborhood intersection to catch a ride to school. We didn’t catch a bus, but one of the teachers lived nearby so we walked to meet him on the corner. It was on his way to the school. It was a good and convenient arrangement.

On our walk we would often find treasures to bring home. On one particular day we came upon a pine root about three feet long. It tapered on one end and had a knob at the top. It looked like walking cane the aging Bilbo Baggins might have used. The knob end had clearly been pulled from the ground as it had a few sharp points on it.

As boys did at the time, a game of war broke out in the neighborhood one afternoon. Whether it was “Cowboys & Indians” or “Germans & Americans” I can no longer recall. Of course in the game no one ever admits to being killed and everyone claims their shots were true. As one boy rounded the corner of the house I “shot” at him and he “shot” at me with our imaginary guns. “Bang, bang! you’re dead!” “No I’m not! You missed! I shot you first!”

My little brother, unbeknownst to me, stood behind me intent to join the fray - though clearly not invited to play with the “big boys.” I heard from behind me, “I got him!” Then everything went black.

Next moment I recall, I am sitting on the front porch with mom holding the back of my head. The pine root had become Cain’s club - though wielded without malice or jealousy.

In today’s world a trip to the hospital would be the standard procedure - but money was tight. So, my parents took me to the kitchen table and Dad put two stitches in the back of my head. My parents monitored me to assure I wasn’t vomiting or getting sleepy.

Days passed and I healed and all that remains now is a memory and a small divot in the back of my head hidden by hair.

Returning to the car stop awaiting a ride for school some weeks later I discovered another treasure. It was a metal ring about three or four inches across. I played with it in my hand. I shared my find with my brother and he returned it to me. We eventually arrived at the stop and I became bored with the ring. I asked my brother, “You want this?” “No”, he replied. I then tossed it across the road. “Wait! I want it!” “I asked. If you wanted it - go get it if you want it.”

Now, it was a road, but it wasn’t a busy road. It was a typical suburban housing road with light but occasional 25 mph traffic. Looking both ways my brother crossed and after a little searching found the ring. He prepared to return across the road. He looked right then left. He had to wait on two cars. He then looked left and waited on another car. Then he darted across the road and was hit by a car coming from the right.

He flew into the air and bounced twice on the graveled pavement. I fell my knees and screamed, “God! No!”  It was not a request. I confess it was a command. I then got up and went to my brother lying unconscious on the road. In my mind I needed to move him out of the road so he didn’t get hit again.

Fortunately, some of the neighbors stopped me, covered my brother with a blanket, called an ambulance, and sent me to inform my mom. I ran home. 

For some reason I went to the front door and knocked. I told mom and she stood there in disbelief and said, “No! no?!??” And she froze. After a moment I said, “You can stay, but I’m going back.” Then I turned to leave. At which point she said, “Wait! I’m coming.” We both ran to the stop. In the process, I too, ran out in front of a car and placed my hand on the hood as I crossed the street. It was barely moving but I had failed to pay attention.

Eventually, the ambulance arrived. There was a lot of people milling about and talking while they loaded up my brother. Somehow I was permitted to ride in the back of the ambulance and talked with the paramedics as they stabilized him. There remain only visual memories of that.

Much is a blur after that. There were days and weeks at the hospital. There were cancelled summer plans. There were weeks of recovery for him at home. There were interviews with insurance companies or lawyers or something.There was a wedding where he limped down the aisle as a ring bearer several months later.

A club and a ring. They are tied together because of their proximity in time and place. They were also the source of teasing. “You tried to club me to death. I just played ring toss.”

It wasn’t the only traumatic event in my life - but it was the first.  In the end we recovered. We still remember. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes not. It remains part of me - no matter what. And you know, I still find treasures.